


But that's impossible?

by Kaz3313



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 15:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21283994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz3313/pseuds/Kaz3313
Summary: Crowley has been mourning. Nothing is giving him a thrill and everything is reminding him of his lost love. Then, on five years after the horrid event, something unexpected happens- something that will lead to the better?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	But that's impossible?

It was an anniversary; a five year one.

"Hhgk- T-To the world- but let's not forget all the bastards above and below, huh!" Crowley drunkenly sways, his glass tipping to the side and spilling on his pants. He didn’t even bother to give it a second glance much less any demonic intervention.

The bartender long ago cut him off and is unsure whose giving him these drinks. He glances around but no one strikes him as the kind to sneak some drinks to him. However he keeps a close eye just in case. He does, honestly feel bad for his regular customer. It's been five years and the guy still comes here almost every week. He thought how it is a miracle he hadn't gotten alcohol poisoning yet.

"T-they thought they could bring 'bout the apocalypse- and-and want did we do? Thwrat 'em! You're always good at that. Y'know wiles and thwarts and," He places his glass down, more throws it but it doesn't break "And the pricks press on! Was the hellfire out the mouth not enough for them? Apparently not!"

The bartender, James, tries to think when's the last seen Anothony with a change of clothes or at least clean. The reek coming off of him is horrid. A mix of alcohol, tears, blood, and dirt. Yet, his hair only looks a little greasy, he may have given himself a quick scrub down. It was apparent he'd tried to look halfway decent when he got down here. James has half a mind to kick him out- But Anothony rarely caused trouble and always gave large tips. And he still felt for the poor mourning fool.

"Presssssing on. Poking and prodding where they ssshouldn't. Should had their assses then," Crowley's voice starts to crack giving a peak of the fear and guilt under his confidence.

He has done this a lot, during his drunken rambles, thinks James as he absently washes the counter. Hisses and slurs the s consonant, almost on purpose. It could’ve been some kind of speech impediment but James never presses him about it; no one presses him anymore in fear he’ll actually snap.

"But I didn't- I sstarted to relax. Didn't keep an eye on you-And and," Crowley wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve before returning to stare at the empty seat in front of him. Tears, that he insisted they not come today, fell from his eyes in a sudden flash flood. He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up half hoping it's some demon about to take him down.

No- It's the Bartender, who hands him a rag and gives a slight squeeze to his shoulder.

"You have a way home, Anthony?" He asks.

"... yeah," It's been about a month since he actually spoke with someone. Maybe more- As the days went by, everything became blurred.

"Besides that Bentley?"

"...yeah-" He lies and the man gives a hard glare.

"You better not be driving that car drunk,"

"Wouldn't dream of it," With that, and leaving money on the table, Crowley heads out. He has no swing, no swag, he even almost trips as he leaves. He does, however, sober up along the way. 

It didn't stop the tears streaming down his face.

After he blinks the tears away the first thing he notices is something very wrong with the scene. His car, his prized Bently, is missing from it’s parking space which was left half-way on the sidewalk. Yet nothing lay in the path of the passing pedestrians. There is, however, a cop writing in a small pad of paper. He has a sneaking suspicion that a cop being there is connected to the missing Bently.

The cop must’ve head Crowley's footsteps. 

“Owner of the vintage Bently, huh? “ His eyes didn’t leave his notepad, though if they did he may have felt a little pity for the mess of the man.

“ Obviousssly. Everyone who goess to this bar knows that,” Crowley hisses out. 

“ And you know where the Bently was parked?”

“I parked it ssso yesss, oficer,” 

“Had to tow it sir-”

“Go-Satan- Someone, Damn it!” Crowley didn’t even let him finish. In a blink he stomped off. The cop thinks nothing of it besides it's a little odd the man didn't ask where it was towed too. 

" The World is against me,"thought Crowley as he stumbles through traffic and feels drops of water land on his head. "No, not just the World but all bellow and all above,".

He looks up, not to see the heavens but rather to see the dark clouds conjugating together. He stops, glasses sliding just enough that if you looked at him from right above you’d be able to see the yellow tint of his eyes, and stares. Earlier it had been a “lovely” day (he no longer considered days lovely since the most lovely thing that ever graced his view was no longer. However the weather was nice) but now one wouldn’t say the morning matched up with the evening. Crowley would’ve paid no mind and continued gloomily home (and eventually to find his dear Bently) but nostalgia caught on his heart. If he closed his eyes he could pretend a wing shielded him from the rai-

A loud blaring noise interrupts his thoughts. Glancing over a middle aged woman is slamming on her horn and testing how far she can move her car without hitting him (or maybe testing how slow she could hit him with her car- It wouldn’t be the first time some impatient person ran him over) . Crowley is tempted just to give the car a quick kick before racing off but his body didn’t feel like running so he instead carries on, eyes fixated on the thickening dark above him.

His mind was always somewhere else, mostly in a pit, but on somber days like this one he’d allow himself the gift of remembering. Rembring a smile, a wiggle, an odd phrase, or a wing. Entire sequences would travel through, little jokes, arguments, near kisses, or entire half drunk nonsense. Eventually it’d lead to a throb in his chest that could only be numbed by bitterness and alcohol (and lately the throb seeped through the haze) but he let himself think the pain would be worth it. Even so his memory started to betray him; things once crystal clear turned into a puzzle to get it all together. He once woke up and forgot the name of a restaurant they went to once in Rome, it took him the better (or worse) part of a week to think it up. He’d screamed till his voice was horse the word “Oysters” and threw an “Aardvark” in there for the sake of sanity. When his mind finally revealed it,it barely came out as a whimper, and he wrote it down- it would be eligible to any human but Crowley could read “Petronius” like one could read “Cat”.

Crowley has an idea now; one that may bring him back to little bits of the past. He just hopes he’ll be able to keep his composure. 

“Well angel, this has to be my worst idea yet,” Crowley is right, in a sense. He’s standing in the rain, no car, and the only hope to get dry is a bookshop that hasn’t been open in five years (not that he doesn’t have the key). He goes to touch the door handle but feels his shaky hand repealed from it. He curses- the first week he tried to go back here he was escorted out by a kind lady who saw him uncontrollably sobbing, the first year he didn’t even go to this part of Soho, and by the third year he could walk by it but kept a distance.

Now by the fifth year he could touch a doorknob with it pouring out and still not able to step a foot inside. He could look inside but, after a phantom image sets itself in his mind, he decides it’s best not to.

“Progress,” He mutters and saunters away, unsure of where to go. 

Crowley breaks when he turned his head and saw a duck. This duck is just like any other duck, hungry, has ears (theoretically), and looks like it could kill Crowley if he came any closer and didn’t supply any bread. Luckily for the duck, he wasn’t going to approach them. Instead he fell onto the ground, water pattering down relentlessly. He couldn’t take it anymore, he wants to curl up in a ball and take a century long nap. He didn’t care if it’s here or his flat or his Bently (that’s missing in action and he knows he has to find) or anywhere. It didn’t matter that time would progress around him with no one the wiser. He’d wake up and find some things obsolete and some new things but even then that has no bearing on him. 

The one he cherishes most is gone, has been, and it wasn’t a simple discorperation. Not something you could just go get a replacement vessel for. Five years ago a light that can’t be replicated was extinguished.

“Aziraphale, I just want you back!” Crowley cries out to the uncaring rain and the bewildered ducks. He cries to Hell and Heaven (not looking for sympathy but for them to be reminded of their crimes). No one calls back, no one responds and he’s always expected it this way but his chest grows tighter and the wound in his heart deepens. 

The worst part is, that he remembers. The day before had been the happiest time for Crowley; they finally confessed. They were sitting in that damned (holy) shop and a scared " What are we? " left his lips. At that time he thought of a billion answers (some generic like "A demon and angel, obviously" some that made his heart tingle with excitement "Why, you are my best friend,") but his angel surprised him. His response was a kiss. Not even a chaste one- it was long and deep. Before he knew it, Crowley was thrown against a bookcase and the longing of six thousand years melded together. His entire body was littered with kisses, some even leaving dark purple blue, as he gave appreciation by sliding his fingers around white curls. 

None of it mattered, though, because just as soon as he had love in his grasp it was taken away. All that remains is a shattered half.

“I wish this was holy water,” He mutters, water soaking through his dark clothes. Rain never has been favorable in his eyes. It has a certain chill that seeps through your skin and grows into your body- and it isn’t just the drenched part of it either that got Crowley to damn (or bless but a demon can’t bless) the rain and water as a whole. When Adam and Eve were cast out rain let its first fall, millions of people were swept away by floods when deemed sinful, it was the Red sea that parted then rushed together when Moses commanded, and it rained when he found Azriphale laying half-destroyed in a pool of his own blood. Rain meant Heaven or God being involved and Crowley never found that to be a good omen for a demon like himself. 

Then suddenly, his back no longer is assaulted with the blasted liquid. He’s still soaked through (which is going to be a pain to walk around in but that isn't a main concern) but it’s a nice change. He looks up expecting the dark clouds to part but he’s greeted with white instead.

Feathers- In a flash his mind is taken back to Eden but he quickly blinks it away. No feathers, just white. The more he looks the more it looks like nylon. Oh- an umbrella.

“Uhh, thanks,” Crowley says looking around for the person who’s holding it. The umbrella blocks the view but judging by stumpy legs and small shoes they’re a child. He goes to wiggle away from it, just to stand and adjust himself, but the umbrella follows. For a second a smile crosses his face. Human children could be the sweetest creatures (also the most chaotic)."I'm going to stand up, kid, give me a little wiggle room," 

The little child shuffles backward, brown shoes squeak against the pavement. Crowley stands, brushing off his pants in more show (and habit) then for functionality, and turns to the child, who is still attempting to hold the umbrella over his head. 

"So, kid w-" He stops seeing shocking familiar white curls. "Aziraphale?". 


End file.
